


Five Card Draw

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [4]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Competency, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Season/Series 4, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Role Reversal, Strip Poker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: “Never play cards with Q,” Julia says, emphatically, a dark look in her eye and well. Eliot knows himself well enough to know how he usually reacts to being told not to do things.Eliot and Quentin play strip poker. It goes about how you’d expect.





	Five Card Draw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decideophobia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/decideophobia/gifts).



> This is [all](https://coldwaughtered.tumblr.com/post/185865837481/i-guess-well-just-have-to-play-an-honest-game) [Nasti’s](https://coldwaughtered.tumblr.com/post/185865985626/a-concept-q-and-eliot-playing-cards-and-quentin) [fault](https://coldwaughtered.tumblr.com/post/185889998365) I swear. I have no other excuses. Also I haven’t played poker in about seven years, so please forgive the vaguery. This is set in the [the one with the dog](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404727) universe, but all you need to know about that to read it is that Quentin is alive and he, Julia and Eliot are long-term condo-sitting for Kady.
> 
> All my love and eternal gratitude to [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) who once again just rolled with it when I threw 3k of smut at her.

When Quentin comes back from walking the dog, Julia and Eliot are playing cards. Poker, to be exact. They’re playing poker. 

He’d been gone for approximately 30 minutes, long enough for Desy to do her business and presumably traumatize a few squirrels in the process. It was Julia who’d broken out Quentin’s pack of cards, waggling them and a half-full bag of bite-sized candy at Eliot. And well, Eliot had always enjoyed a good card game and he’d always been pretty good at poker. He regularly wiped the floor with Margo, at the very least, enough that she refused to play with him unless they were both really drunk.

Qunetin comes back into the apartment looking grumpy, carrying a bag of dog shit in one hand and wiggly yappy puppy in the other, a while after Eliot and Julia set up on the table in the dining room. A small ante pile consisting mostly of mini chocolate bars and a few crumpled up dollar bills sits on the table between them.

“That’s a weakass pot,” Quentin observes, setting Dessy down so she can scamper over and sniff Eliot’s leg. He scratches her absently, lets her smear her slime all over his hand, and gives Quentin a curious look.

“What would you play for?”

“Nothing,” Julia cuts in with surprising vehemence, glowering over at Quentin, which seems a bit– abrupt, all things considered. “You can fuck _right off_ , Coldwater.”

“Wow, my _best friend_ ,” Quentin laments, mock-wounded, before ducking into the kitchen, presumably to drop off the bag-o-shit and wash his hands.

“What’s that about?” Eliot asks, mildly curious, distracting her with small-talk while he draws a card.

“ _Never_ play cards with Q,” Julia says, emphatically, a dark look in her eye and well. Eliot knows himself well enough to know how he usually reacts to being told not to do things. 

“Listen, no offense Julia, but I’ve been kicking your ass for the last 30 minutes. Maybe you’re just bad at this,” Eliot says dryly, and wow, he’s probably lucky she doesn’t have any magical ability at the moment because the look he gets in return says if she could hex him, she would. 

“We could give it a shot. Strip poker? What do you say, El?” Quentin says lightly, wandering back from the kitchen, rolling up the sleeves on his button up causally like he doesn’t fucking know Eliot’s gonna get distracted by his forearms. Oh, this would be a rookie mistake, Eliot knows this. Playing poker with someone who knows you as well as Q knows him is a _bad idea at all times._

“Don’t let him draw you in,” Julia cautions, but she’s smirking a little. Fuck her, honestly, this is her fault to begin with. 

Quentin raises an eyebrow, which amounts to a challenge, and honestly. Has Eliot every walked away from a challenge in his life? He’s survived a literal to the death sword fight that he was woefully unprepared for, he can handle his boyfriend playing cards.

Right? 

“What do you play, Coldwater? Straight? Stud?” 

The little smile on Quentin’s face is _dangerous_. “I’m flexible. Can’t imagine you want to do _anything_ straight.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re either going to kill each other or fuck on this table, and you know what, I don’t think I want to be here for either of those,” Julia says lightly, folding her cards into a small pile and dropping them down in front of Eliot. Then, because she worships anarchy and has no sense of decorum, she grabs a handful of candy from the pot and stands up. 

“I believe those are still in play,” Eliot accuses, and gets an amused look in reply.

“Tough shit,” she quips, and stops on her way by Q to kiss his cheek. “Don’t make him cry, okay?”

Quentin fixes Eliot with that same light smile, which one might go so far as to call _smug_ if one were inclined to such things. Eliot swallows, quickly getting the sense that he’s in over his head and not entirely sure what to do about it. Because Quentin drops neatly into Julia’s empty seat, calling the pack of cards over to him with a tug of physical magic which is usually more Eliot’s speed than Quentin’s. 

“Five Card Draw is always a good way to go,” Quentin say lightly, riffle shuffling the deck quickly, before shifting into a blackjack shuffle. The cards look natural in his hands, easy and relaxed as he cuts and restacks the deck one handed. “Are we playing like magicians or like muggles?”

“Magicians, of course,” Eliot says desperately, because Jesus, there’s no way he’s going to stand a _chance_ if he can’t play with probability, he’s seen Quentin do card tricks. Bravado comes easily, because if there’s one thing Eliot can do well it’s _bluff._ “Unless you’re worried I’m going to out-cast you.”

“Not a chance,” Quentin says, lips quirking, dimple digging into the corner of his mouth. Eliot is so _fucked._ “Lose a round, lose an article of clothing.”

“You’re serious? You want to play strip poker at, what, three in the afternoon?”

“Shy?” Quentin asks, blinking big earnest eyes at Eliot, and _fuck._ Eliot’s never seen him like this before. Casually confident, easy and relaxed. “If you’d rather play for cash, we can. Didn’t think you of all people would be so puritanical about it.”

“Yeah, fuck that. I will take any excuse to get you naked.”

“Oh honey,” Quentin says, pitying, and _fuck,_ why is Eliot _into this?_ “That’s what you think.”

They cut the deck to see who deals first, and Eliot draws the high card. He watches, enthralled, as Quentin shuffles again. He’s _absolutely_ showing off, and Eliot knows he’s well and truly fucked because he can’t stop watching Q’s hands. He _knows_ those hands. He knows them very, very well. He knows what they feel like twisted with his, running over his skin, wrapped around his cock, _inside his body._

It becomes obvious very quickly that Eliot would be in trouble even if Quentin wasn’t a fucking card shark, and a Magician on top of it. He’s _distracting,_ and he bluffs exceptionally well. Eliot’s entire ability to read him is thrown off by Quentin’s confidence, the self-assured competence that’s manifested out of nowhere. None of his usual tells are even remotely evident. Eliot clings to his own calm, High King Bitch Please smirk like a life-line, and cheats with a vengeance.

The problem is, Quentin is cheating _better._ The air around them _tingles_ with probability magic, but Quentin’s _good_ at it, and he’s smart about it. Half of what he’s doing is playing with the mid-level cards, guessing Eliot’s bluffs and maniesting cards that just don’t fucking help Eliot at all. He loses several hands to a pair or two pair from Q, just because he’s got _nothing in his hand._

The one saving grace is that Eliot layers his clothes like a motherfucker, even on the days when he’s not planning to leave the house or be seen by anyone other than Q and Julia. He’s still got a tie, because it makes him feel like _himself_ and not the shell of a baby monster, a cardigan, suspenders and shoes to get through before even down to the same level of clothing that Quentin’s wearing. Any hint of hubris is immediately met with the fact that Quentin is a fucking con artist, and smug about it. 

“Oh, bad luck, baby,” Quentin _gloats_ , the _bitch,_ when Eliot’s throws down a straight, to which Q lays down his own full house. “Too bad you couldn’t get that up last time, would have beat my three.”

“You’re _full of shit_ ,” Eliot gripes, shrug off his suspenders to throw them into the small pile of clothing collecting next to Q at the table. He can’t bring himself to be _too_ pissy about it, because Quentin’s practially _glowing_ , just so fucking pleased with himself, he’s putting the puppy to shame with self-satisfaction.

Confident Q is a new experience for Eliot, and he’s equal parts frustrated and fucking _turned on_ by it. And frustrated with himself for being turned on. And frustrated because he can’t just grab Q by his stupid face and _make out with him_ , because that would be admitting defeat.

He does win one hand, with a slightly higher straight than Quentin’s got to show for this particular round of cheating. Eliot gets Q’s socks in return, leaving him barefoot against the hardwood floor. The look of surprise on Q’s face is the first break in his bluff, the first _hint_ of anything beyond unflappable confident surety. It’s enough to make Eliot feel a little better, otherwise he might be inclined to think Q let him win a round out of pity. But Quentin doubles down again, cheating like a motherfucker, and Eliot can’t keep up.

It’s _hot_ , okay, it’s fucking _hot_ , Quentin’s hot, he’s confident, he knows what he’s doing and he’s good at the magic that it takes to do it. Competency kink isn’t a kink Eliot would usually claim to have, but watching Quentin be good at something and _know_ that he’s good at it... that was a new kind enthralling. And it was infuriating, because losing fucking sucks! Eliot’s good at poker! He knows he is!

Quentin’s just better.

“Final round– no magic, just a straight game. All or nothing, winner gets a blowjob,” Eliot snaps, annoyed and desperate. Because he’s down to his pants and honestly, he doesn’t feel like being buck-ass naked in the middle of the apartment, not when Julia’s home and the puppy’s just chilling under his chair. Definitely not when he’s half hard just from watching Quentin Coldwater’s confident fucking hands.

“Hmm,” Quentin hums thoughtfully, flipping a card from the deck with one hand, then spinning it over his knuckles. Fuck, what was Eliot thinking, he’d agreed to play with magic for a reason. “All or nothing, loser gets fucked.” 

Honestly, that sounded kind of like a win-win scenario, if you asked Eliot. The bragging rights alone were worth more than the ante, in this situation. Low heat already spreading in his groin, he nods, grabbing for that bravado one last time. “You don’t have to throw the hand to get me to fuck you, baby. You know all you’ve gotta do is ask nice.”

“Oh, I know. At least that’s something you’re good at.”

“You _bitch_ ,” Eliot accuses, laughing, can’t help himself. Quentin smiles, the first real smile of the last hour that isn’t a smirk, just slow spread of happiness that reaches his eyes. _He loves me,_ Eliot thinks, and feels warm with it. 

Doesn’t mean Eliot’s going to be happy to _lose_ , though. 

It’s a tense, high strung round. Even ‘no magic’ doesn’t mean no cheating, when it comes to Quentin, Eliot knows this very well. He himself is not great at physically cheating at cards, the best he’s capable of is slyly drawing two instead of one. But even that doesn’t dramatically improve your odds of winning. It does get him three of a kind though, which means if Quentin’s just holding a pair or two, he might have a fighting chance.

“Last chance to save your dignity,” he says lightly, and watches Quentin rake his eyes down Eliot’s bare chest.

“I find nothing undignified about getting fucked,” he says lightly, one eyebrow raised, and _shit balls mother bitch fucking hell_. “Also I’m not the one sitting here in just my pants.”

“Call your fucking bluff, Coldwater,” Eliot mutters, throwing down his three of a kind. 

Quentin makes an impressed face, and Eliot wants to _lick him_ , wants to _bite him_ , kiss that fucking confidence right out of his mouth. “Pretty good, for a muggle hand,” he says lightly, fanning his own cards down. All clubs– a flush. “Not good enough though.”

There’s a beat, a pause, where everything draws tight around them, and Quentin’s self-satisfied little smile is all Eliot can see. Then they broth spring into motion at the same time, grabbing for each other and sending cards scattering to the four winds. They definitely spook the dog, Eliot can hear her surprised yelp and the scamper of her little feet as she makes a break for the living room. He can’t bring himself to _care_ , not with Quentin’s weight pinning him to the table, Quentin’s hot wet mouth open to him, _hungry for him._

“Bedroom,” Eliot pants, shoving at Q’s chest a little, and gets a shallow bite to his lip in response, Q holding on with his teeth as he pulls back.

“Yeah, pay up,” he breathes, hot against Eliot’s mouth. Arousal throbs through Eliot’s body, he’s hard in his trousers and _hungry_ , and Q’s being _pushy._ Which is a delightful treat, honestly, Eliot’s never seen him like this before. When he stands back, he gets a hold of Eliot’s waistband and _pulls,_ Eliot follows him eagerly. 

Eliot ends up pinned to the bedroom door, getting the shit kissed out of him. Quentin doesn’t have the height or weight to _really_ pin Eliot, but he’s got the eagerness, keeps going up on his toes in the wave of the kiss, gripping Eliot’s hips and fucking his tongue into Eliot’s mouth.

“Let me,” Eliot pants, trying to pull back long enough to speak, and ends up with Quentin’s mouth on his neck instead, hot and wet and sharp. “Let me get your _clothes off,_ fuck.”

“Should have played better if you wanted to do that,” Quentin teases, and for a second there Eliot thinks he means it, like Quentin’s gonna fuck Eliot with all his clothes still on. He’d be lying if he said that wasn’t an appealing thought. But then Q pulls back, starts to unbutton his shirt, and Eliot forgets to be disappointed in favor of attacking Q’s perfect little nipples with his mouth.

They sprawl backwards onto the bed once the rest of their clothes are shed, Eliot’s trousers left in a heap with Q’s skinny jeans, underwear discarded. Quentin’s perfect little from on top of Eliot isn’t exactly a new experience, Quentin _fucking_ Eliot isn’t even a new experience, not really. Not exactly the norm, but hey, who didn’t switch every now and then? But this, Q like this, intent and driven with purpose, this is new. Eliot gets the sense that he’s about to get really _fucked_ in a way he hasn’t been in quite a while. He can’t fucking wait.

Settling between Eliot’s spread thighs easily, Q seems content to take the magical approach to sex this time, probably because they’ve been working each other up for literally an hour over this. But Eliot doesn’t want that, emphatically doesn’t want the weird stretch-ache-empty feel that comes from magically induced prep. He reaches out, catching Quentin's fingers halfway through a tut. "If you think you're gonna make me watch you being unfairly good with your hands for an hour and then _not_ finger me, you're crazy."

“Oh, well, uh. When you put it that way.” It’s the first crack in the facade, the first hint of uncertainty, of Eliot’s normal eager, soft, submissive Quentin poking through. It’s simultaneous endearing, and kind of makes Eliot feel bad for breaking the spell a little.

“Hey,” Eliot says gently, tightening his thighs until he draws Q back down to hover over him, breath on his face and hair hanging down against his forehead. Says, because sometimes it bears repeating, even in the most obvious of circumstances: “I love you.” 

Definitely bears repeating now, because Quentin’s rough edges smooth over, immediately. “I love you, too,” he says softly, and then his eyes go wicked, sharp and bright. “Not enough to let you win, though.”

“Well, naturally,” Eliot laughs, and lets Quentin pull away, stretch over to grab the bottle of lube off of the nightstand. 

Q’s fingers are thicker than Eliot’s, solid and sturdy, which combined with the better angle means they feel about a million times better than when Eliot does this himself. Q might have a little less muscle memory with this than he does with playing cards, but the truth is Quentin _knows_ Eliot, _knows_ his body. They may not have blow-by-blow memories from the entire 50 years they spent on the mosaic, but the impressions remain, and with it the memories of how to touch each other. Quentin knows just how to work his fingers inside Eliot to send pleasure radiating out through his pelvis in waves.

“Fuck, _Q_ ,” Eliot pants, shifting his hips back into Quentin’s fingers, chasing the feeling. Oh, but the rhythm is good, it’s exactly what he likes. He’s hard and leaking against his own stomach just from this. 

“No, fuck Eliot,” Quentin quips, because he’s a _nerd,_ Eliot’s in love with a fucking dork-ass nerd, how is this his life?

“Get to it then, Jesus,” he gripes, and gets an extra long drag against his prostate for his trouble. Fuck, he’s practically seeing stars.

Quentin’s careful when he pulls his fingers out, and even more careful when he pushes his cock in. It’s a stretch, it _aches_ , but Eliot loves it. Oh, they don’t do this enough, it’s so good. But then that would mean giving up all the time he gets to spend inside Q or with his beautiful mouth on Eliot’s cock.

“Why do we ever do anything that’s not sex?” Eliot pants, as Quentin bottoms out, braced on his forearms near Eliot’s head. “We need to do more sex.”

“Do more sex, got it,” Quentin agrees, and Eliot gets the distinct impression he’s being laughed at, but he honestly _does not care_ , not when he can reach down and grab Quentin’s pert little ass and _pull him in._

“Fuck me, _hard_ ,” Eliot mutteres, biting at Qs jaw, and Quentin, well. Quentin’s always eager to please. He works up to it, gives them both a chance to get used to the feeling of it, but when he really snaps his hips, Eliot feels the jolt of it up through his whole body. “ _Fuck yes_ , just like that.”

“B-bossy,” Quentin stutters out, focused on what his hips are doing. Which is good, because his hips are doing _amazing things._

Still, Eliot laughs. “I’m still me, baby.”

“Yeah, you are. Jesus, you’re hot,” Quentin pants, and Eliot feels it ripple through him, pleasure at the validation, and _being wanted_

Positioned like this, Quentin’s stomach drags against Eliot’s cock with every thrust. Maybe a year or two ago he’d have felt chagrined at the idea of missionary sex with a long term partner, but honestly it’s really doing it for him. The position _and_ the long term partner thing. Shifting to something else might let Quentin get more direct pressure on his prostate, but that would mean giving up the stimulation on his cock, or sacrificing one of his hands on Q to do it himself, and honestly, he’s good like he is. Like this, he can wrap himself around Q, arms and legs and heart and mind. Like this, they can kiss and pant into each other’s mouths. Like this, when Q gets the angle right and the pleasure goes sharp, bright and hot, Eliot’s moans are spoken against his lips, into the wide-open cavern of Quentin’s own need. 

“Eliot, you feel so– Are you–?” Q sounds strained, and Eliot slides his hand up and down Q’s back, tries to feel _all of him._

“It’s okay, baby, I’m good, come on,” Eliot promises, nuzzling his nose against the side of Quentin’s neck as he lets out a sharp little surprised sound, always fucking surprised by his pleasure. Grinding up onto Quentin’s stomach, Eliot lets himself feel it, feel everything, how full he is, how good Quentin’s body feels against him, the scratch of Quentin’s chest hair against his nipples. He laughs when he comes, and everything feels bright. 

Quentin pulls out gently, ever so gently which Eliot appreciates. Q rolls off of him with a groan, flopping onto his back on the mattress. They lay there half on top of each other, catching their breath, sticky with come and lube and sweat. 

“That was the toppiest I’ve _ever seen you_ ,” Eliot mutters, kind of awed, feeling incredibly well fucked out. 

“I’m sorry?” Quentin replies, but he doesn’t really sound very sorry at all.

“Don’t be, that was fucking _hot._ You’re sexy when you’re confident.”

“Thanks.” It’s small, and shy, and that’s the Q he knows, always ready to put himself down or assume people are making fun of him.

Eliot rolls over, settling in close in such a way that laying on his side won’t tug at the healing wound on his stomach. “You’re sexy always. But your top energy is new and exciting. Now I know what to do if I’m in the mood for that.”

“Let me kick your ass at poker?” Quentin teases, shifting just right so his whole body drags against Eliot’s. _Fuck,_ Eliot wants to _eat him._

“So worth it, baby,” Eliot murmurs, leaning in to kiss him long and deep and slow. 

Somehow, he still kind of feels like he’s won, in the long run.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check out [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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